


If I Split Like Light Refracted..

by Diminua



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild S&M, Should probably warn for adultery too.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-10-31 11:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/Diminua
Summary: This was a PWP series but I want to expand and go somewhere. Hence the x-post.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an x-post from livejournal.

Lestrade is actually in the squad car before he notices a strange lightness in his hip pocket and checks to see what’s missing. Even then he can’t quite believe it.

‘The little sod’s nicked my handcuffs now.’ He says irritably. ‘I’ll have to go back and get them.’

‘We can wait.’

‘No, I’ll get myself home. It’s not far.’

He's halfway up to the first floor before they pull away. 

As usual Sherlock has left the door of his flat open in either invitation or laziness and is sitting on his sofa (tatty old thing, but the whole flat is tatty, all it does is throw Sherlock into sharp relief as the one attractive and spotlessly neat thing in it) in clear view of the stairs. He's also apparently trying to take the handcuffs to pieces with a hacksaw so he can look at the locking mechanism.

‘Oi! I need those.’

‘Hmm?’ Sherlock looks up at Lestrade without surprise, handcuffs dangling carelessly between his fingers. 

It doesn't stop him swinging them out of reach and vaulting over the back of the sofa in an astonishing burst of movement as Lestrade tries to snatch them from him though. Lestrade doesn't understand where Sherlock gets all this energy from, even if he is more than ten years younger. He's never seen him eat.

‘Surely you can get another pair.’ Sherlock says this as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

‘No I bloody can’t.’ Lestrade advances, backing Sherlock against the wall. It doesn’t seem to occur to him to run and for a wonderful, frightening moment, Lestrade thinks that maybe Sherlock doesn’t want to escape. He quickly dismisses the idea, but he's not as ashamed of it as he would have expected to be.

At close quarters he can see the ring of darker colour around Sherlock's iris. The very slight fraying on the collar of his spotlessly laundered shirt. The scent of expensive cologne - just a splash - but cheap toothpaste. Sherlock had money once, that much is clear, but he's obviously on his uppers now. The puzzle just makes Lestrade want to get closer, work out how this odd, skinny, much too young for him man works.

Or perhaps he should just get out of there before he makes an old fool of himself.

‘Sherlock.’ Lestrade says wearily as the other man hides his prize behind his back. ‘You do realize you’re being a bit of a git don’t you?’ Despite, or perhaps because of, Lestrade's annoyance, Sherlock just smiles a lazy, superior, smile.

‘That is, I suppose, one point of view. Although my probation officer always used to say I was just looking for attention.’ Lestrade, who ran Sherlock’s name through CRIMINT the day he met him - which is a few months back now - knows perfectly well that he’s never been in custody more than a night or two, nowhere near long enough to have been given a probation officer.

It wasn't much of a charge sheet really - possession, affray, trespass, suspicious loitering. None of it substantiated.

That said, if it’s attention Sherlock wants Lestrade is more than happy to give it to him. He stops trying to grab the handcuffs and grasps Sherlock’s shoulder instead, turning him to the wall with the ease of long practice. Not that Sherlock’s resisting. He doesn’t even kick up a fuss when Lestrade tugs his hands behind his back and clicks one of the cuffs round Sherlock’s right wrist, refusing to think about how this is going to make a complicated relationship so much trickier. When he does the left as well Sherlock lets his forehead fall forward against the wall, closing his eyes.

‘I assume I’m not actually under arrest.’ He almost-asks, his voice not quite as arrogant as usual.

‘You bloody should be.’ Lestrade growls, moving indecently close up behind him. Sherlock shivers at the movement, the sound.

‘You ok?’ Lestrade asks, in a completely different voice, because fun though this is he does actually need to know they're both after the same thing here.

‘I'm fine.’ Sherlock says to the badly painted beige wall. ‘You might want to work on your bent copper routine though.’

‘Don’t get funny with me sonny.’ 

Lestrade grins when Sherlock snorts with laughter at the cliché. ‘Alright. As we were then.’ He takes a step back. ‘Turn round and kneel.’

It leaves him slightly breathless when Sherlock does as he’s told for once, folding up gracefully like a dancer, his face carefully blank and his eyes apparently focused on the opposite wall, disassociating himself from what’s happening. Concerned and maybe a little offended, Lestrade slides a hand under Sherlock’s chin and turns his face up to force him to make eye contact. Sherlock pouts but doesn’t resist and Lestrade feels a throb of lust pulse through him at the feeling of control.

Lestrade’s breath catches again for the few seconds their eyes actually meet. It should be impossible for eyes the colour of Sherlock’s to look anything but cold. Right now they smoulder.

Then that over-bright gaze drops away again, as though Sherlock is afraid to reveal too much. It lingers instead on the bulge in Lestrade’s trousers. A smirk tugs at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. ‘At least we know what you’re hoping to get out of this.’ He mutters. It's an odd remark, but Lestrade ignores it for now. Instead he simply releases Sherlock’s chin and reaches for the top button of his own trousers.

Sherlock shifts on his knees. He’ll never admit it, but he’s actually slightly nervous. It’s been a little while since he’s done this, and never with his hands fastened behind his back. Not that the prospect is unpleasant. Lestrade’s skin, revealed as he unbuttons his flies, smells musky but otherwise clean, and as he pushes his trousers down further Sherlock feels a thrill ripple through him. The helplessness of his position only enhances the sensation. This is a new experience, and Sherlock loves those.

He starts with a tentative lick, tasting the moisture that is already there and adding his own; but Lestrade is, or pretends to be, impatient, and takes a firm hold of Sherlock’s head with one hand and his own penis in the other and feeds it through Sherlock’s lips, a stern expression on his face.

It’s a very clear message of dominance, and if it weren’t exactly what Sherlock wanted he would definitely kick. Instead he closes his eyes and concentrates on confirming everything Lestrade has ever suspected about public schoolboys. Not that he’s in a position to comment.

Lestrade’s hand fists in Sherlock’s hair, impatient again as Sherlock’s mouth moves slowly at first, exploring, then more rapidly, gaining in confidence.

‘Fuck.’ Lestrade mutters, the heat mounting inside him. This isn’t going to last long.

When he starts swaying on his feet Sherlock pulls back a little – as far as Lestrade’s grip will let him – because otherwise he’ll choke, and that’s never sexy. When Lestrade follows the movement Sherlock trembles, realising with sudden, unnerving clarity just how incredibly vulnerable he is like this.

There’s not much he can do to resist with his head held tight, slowly being reeled back in with each thrust, a wall more or less at his back and Lestrade being selfish now, apparently indifferent as to whether he chokes Sherlock or not.

Sherlock’s eyes water as the last few thrusts go in too deep, and then, as if to thwart his expectations, Lestrade pulls all the way out and comes in his face instead. Sherlock flinches instinctively, but Lestrade’s hand is still cupped round the back of his skull and there’s nothing he can do. He wants to wipe his face, his mouth, but he can’t do that either. He can’t quite believe how filthy he feels.

‘You weren’t expecting that were you?’ Lestrade’s voice is a smug rumble of sound. Sherlock shakes his head slowly, grateful when he feels a tissue move over his face, cleaning him up carefully. ‘Better?’ Lestrade asks.

Sherlock nods, still mute. Somewhere inside his inner critic is noting that Lestrade’s still being too nice for his role, but the words won’t line themselves up in any way that makes sense. He actually feels quite shaken. How odd.

Lestrade drops to his own knees, tired, and murmurs something like ‘it’s only fair’ as his hand dives into Sherlock’s trousers and begins stroking almost viciously. Sherlock lets his head drop back again with a groan of satisfaction, tugging on the cuffs just to remind himself they’re there.

It’s more intense than he expected and his orgasm hits him disconcertingly quickly, making a mess of Lestrade’s shirt sleeve and his own very expensive trousers.

Lestrade puts his clothes to rights and removes the handcuffs without saying a word. Then he sits and just looks at Sherlock a moment before finally speaking.

‘So what was all that about then?’ He asks.

‘I was bored.’ Sherlock explains, calm again now. Then, genuinely concerned, he adds. ‘This hasn’t changed anything has it?’

‘No.’ Lestrade reassures him, smiling. ‘I still think you’re a sod.’

He picks up his jacket and heads for the door, vaguely wondering why this doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.

‘Text me if anything interesting comes up.’ Sherlock calls after him as he heads down the stairs.

‘I’ll think about it.’ He shouts back up. Better than nothing, Sherlock supposes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never smoked, don't ever want to smoke and am not quite sure how I came to write this.

Lestrade usually rolls his own cigarettes, tight little tubes of Swan paper and Amber Leaf tobacco, sharp and filterless. Sherlock smokes strong Russian cigarettes in strange colours when he can afford them and makes do with multipacks of Lambert and Butler when he can’t.

He must be skint right now because Lestrade finds the silver cardboard box in his inside jacket pocket. Open, three cigarettes gone, a folded book of matches from a hotel slipped into the packet next to the seventeen that remain.

There’s the usual stare battle – Lestrade remaining unmoved, Sherlock being a brat – as Lestrade lights one up and draws on it to get it going. Not that long ago the fact he was more than ten years older than Sherlock used to worry Lestrade. He’s over that now. Sherlock knows exactly what he’s doing. Anyway he’s nearly thirty for chrissake, though he looks younger.

The filter tastes strange and seems to suck all the moisture from Lestrade's mouth but Sherlock's machine made will be better than roll ups for what he has in mind. Less likely to go out.

He presses his lips briefly to Sherlock’s, sharing the smoke. Sherlock’s mouth is pleasantly wet and yielding against his own and his eyes are thoughtful as Lestrade draws away again, takes another drag of smoke. They’re much the same height, although the fact Sherlock’s hands are fastened above his head is making him appear taller.

Sherlock wonders whether Lestrade has realized that despite the many other - and supposedly more intimate - things they’ve done, that was their first actual kiss. Perhaps. Lestrade doesn’t give much away.

His eyes move up to Sherlock’s bound wrists – he’s got a thing for tying Sherlock, up or down doesn’t really matter, just so long as he’s forced to be still and compliant. It might be because he finds him so hard to control at other times, it might just be kinkiness, it’s not the sort of behaviour Sherlock has made sufficient study of to be certain.

Yet.

‘You think too much.’ Lestrade breaks in, coaxing the filter tip of the cigarette between Sherlock’s lips. He takes it in willingly, drags deep and long, chest rising into Lestrade’s touch as he starts to unbutton his shirt, collar down.

Sherlock’s chest, unlike Lestrade’s own, is pale and hairless. His ribcage is a little less prominent than it was when they started all this but still apparent enough to feel fragile as Lestrade spreads his palms across it. He can also sense Sherlock’s elevated heartbeat, the quickened pace of breath.

His face is carefully impassive. If he is getting fond of Sherlock the last thing he needs is for the younger man to notice it.

He takes the fag back for another puff, tasting smoke and darkness and Sherlock as he pushes the jacket and shirt back and open. He doesn’t look at Sherlock’s face as he puts the cigarette to the soft, pale skin. He knows Sherlock can see him, can object if he wants. He also knows, or thinks he knows, that Sherlock won’t.

In fact Sherlock makes no noise until the heat and pain stabs through and forces him to catch his breath. A short hiss of unwilling sound, a slight flinch of Sherlock’s chest muscles away from the heat, a perfect circular mark and the pounding of Sherlock’s heart against Lestrade’s free hand, are the reactions. There is no other protest, no resistance, as Lestrade moves to do it again.

Sherlock tips his head back, almost afraid to watch but not wanting it to stop. His own body’s response is fascinating, heart and breathing and the tight little stab of pain left with the first wound. The hot cruel pain of the next. Clearly Lestrade is kinky, very kinky, and Sherlock must be too because this is the most compelling thing he’s ever experienced.

His mouth is slightly slack when Lestrade gives him the cigarette back, but after a moment he accepts it and rolls it against his tongue, letting the familiar sensation soothe him. When Lestrade plucks it out again and kisses him he breathes the smoke down into Lestrade’s lungs, curls of it escaping and trickling back up to his nose.

Their eyes meet as Lestrade draws away, no longer battling. Instead Lestrade’s are wide and warm and Sherlock’s attentive as Lestrade finishes off that cigarette and lights another.


	3. Chapter 3

Afterwards there’s the pub, on the way home. Just the one pint while he waits for the train and figures out what he thinks he’s doing, tells himself it can’t happen again, knows it will. 

The door needs painting, one of those jobs he meant to do. Hasn’t done yet. Herself is going out – she tells him where, but it’ll be a lie and if he doesn’t bother to listen to it he won’t be tempted to call her out on it, so he just shrugs and heads into the living room to slump on the couch and watch TV with the kids. 

They’re meant to be in bed in 20 minutes but herself won’t be back for hours, so sod it. He needs to spend some time with his kids, make himself a sandwich. Just be normal for a bit. 

Back at work, nothing Sherlock would care about, and they don’t meet otherwise. They’re not – as Sherlock has pointed out witheringly – _friends._


	4. Chapter 4

‘You were in Court today then.’ It’s a very Sherlock sort of greeting, no preamble, no surprise at seeing Lestrade in his doorway. Just a brief glance up before making the deduction and then he goes straight back to what he was doing. Which in this instance is emptying things off his shelves and into a variety of crates and cardboard boxes.

A thick black marker pen, scissors and roll of parcel tape sit on the rather nasty sixties tiled mantel shelf and for the first time Lestrade can remember Sherlock is dressed in a t-shirt and.. and bloody hell he should arrest Sherlock for wearing those jeans. Behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace if ever he saw it.

Lestrade pauses in loosening the tie Sherlock’s observation reminded him he was wearing and stares as Sherlock reaches up, twists, bends to deposit the items in the box, a thin strip of skin showing along the line of his hips, the denim stretching even tighter over Sherlock’s very nice arse.

‘Is something wrong Inspector?’ Sherlock is looking over his shoulder at him again now, eyes narrowed, clearly amused. 

Lestrade snaps out of it, finishes unknotting his tie and pulls it off. ‘You’re moving out then?’ He asks.

‘Yes, well spotted.’ Sherlock lifts down the skull with care and slides it into a paper bag lined with bubble wrap, stuffs newspaper inside. ‘Did you want something?’

‘Just to let you know Treinnis changed his plea to guilty.’

‘I told you he would.’ 

Lestrade can’t be bothered to work up any irritation at Sherlock’s tone. Three years of knowing the man has left him with a basic understanding of how Sherlock’s mind works. While there’s still a puzzle to solve Sherlock is fascinated. Afterwards he’s bored. Court cases, paperwork, that’s Lestrade’s job.

It’s a bit bratty, but Lestade quite likes that. Likes being the adult. 

Or pretending he is, anyway. If he was really in control he guesses he'd stop. He'd think. 

But he doesn't want to think. Instead he rolls his tie up tight and puts it on the mantelpiece, picks up the roll of brown tape and cuts off a section.

He’s got Sherlock’s attention now. That quizzical tilt of the head.

‘Something else you wanted?’ He asks. Lestrade smiles.

‘You could take your shirt off.’

Sherlock shrugs out of the old t-shirt and lets it fall on the sofa. He’s still, despite the unseasonably warm spring they’ve been having, exceptionally pale. Lestrade, whose tan barely has time to fade before it starts up again, still finds Sherlock’s marble skin fascinating. Like a blank canvas.

‘Wrists.’ He says quietly. Obediently, eyes sparkling with mischief, Sherlock clasps his hands together and lets Lestrade wind the tape first around his wrists then up almost to the elbow. It’s tight enough that Sherlock cannot drop his shoulders back and Lestrade enjoys tracing his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s ribs and back and shoulderblades, savouring the way he’s positioned. From there to the neck, pulse and throat and tendons that shift beneath Lestrade’s careful touch as Sherlock looks first up into Lestrade’s face then down again as the tie is wound and knotted.

‘That shouldn’t tighten.’ The fact that Lestrade is able to keep his voice steady as he says this is a surprise to himself. ‘Tell me if it does.’

‘Bowline knot.’ Sherlock deduces. ‘Who knew being a boy scout could come in so useful?’

'Sherlock.' Lestrade takes both ends of the tie and tugs Sherlock closer as he speaks, lowering his voice to an intimate level. 'Try to stop thinking.’

'You know I can't.' Sherlock murmurs just as softly. 'You have to make me.'

‘Come on then.’ Using the tie as a lead, Lestrade pulls Sherlock back to the sofa. ‘Now sit.’ He puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for emphasis, urging him down.

Once seated, Sherlock tips his head back to watch Lestrade watching him, vaguely aware of the silk pressed against the nape of his neck, Lestrade still keeping up the tension in the tether as his fingers stroke back into Sherlock’s hair, combing out the loose tangles that always form at the crown of the head, his mane just as unruly as the rest of him.

But he’s still now. Quiet. 

‘Hold this tight for me.’ Lestrade uncurls the fingers of Sherlock’s right hand to close them again over the loose ends of the tie. ‘Don’t pull, just keep it taut so it doesn’t come undone.’

He slides his fingers inside the loop round Sherlock’s neck, still stroking, resting one knee on the sofa so he can lean right in and grasp – not too tight - a handful of curls to keep Sherlock in place while his other hand takes hold of the fabric and twists it around his fingers until the knot is snug against Sherlock’s Adam’s apple.

Sherlock swallows instinctively against the constriction, his eyes closing, heightening sensation as he swallows again, more slowly this time, aware that he’s drooling. That he has to swallow that too, and feel it again.

Lestrade leans forward, closer still, brushing his lips over Sherlock’s cheek, up to the corner of his jaw, feeling it shift as Sherlock swallows yet again. A small tug, very small and not too sharp, makes him gasp. Still he’s holding the tie tight, complicit.

He only lets go when Lestrade takes it from him and kneels on the sliver of sofa empty between his legs, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss, open mouthed. 

Wet and sweet and meaningless. Symptom of the affection his wife won’t accept from him. 

The lust though, Sherlock knows that’s his. Meets it hungrily, breathless. Uncaring. Jeans tightening as the leash is pulled, bringing him off the sofa and to his knees as Lestrade unbuttons his own trousers, slides the zip slowly down, fascinated by the way Sherlock’s eyes are following it.

He doesn’t really need the tie to reel Sherlock in closer still, lips parted, warm and wet and closing eagerly over the glans, the shaft, whatever he can get. He cards his fingers into Sherlock's hair again, imposing a rhythm that Sherlock picks up rapidly, closing his eyes so he can focus on that, and only that, his bound hands pressed into the edge of the sofa in an effort to find leverage, to play an active part, tongue curling as well as stroking.

Lestrade is holding the tie higher up now, above the knot, knuckles pressing against Sherlock's clavicle, thumb resting lightly at his throat, feeling every movement as Sherlock takes the length of Lestrade in, forces back the reflex to cough, tasting and gulping even as Lestrade finally lets go of the tie and places that hand over the other, pushing Sherlock’s head even further down as he comes.

Then he lets him go completely, coughing and gasping for air, and stumbles to the soda, reels Sherlock in again, encouraging him to rest his cheek against Lestrade’s thigh as he catches his breath, chest still heaving, eyelids fluttering – there is no more masculine word available - and a faint, intriguing, smile on his lips.

Lestrade smiles back and returns to stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s curls again.

It won’t last, but for now it’s soothing.


	5. Chapter 5

If it makes him feel better about the insults, the barbs, the whirl and mayhem of Sherlock around a crime scene, the times when Sherlock looks at him like he’s an idiot, and the times when Sherlock looks at him like he isn’t even there, that’s a bonus right?

It’s still rare, and that’s a good thing too, because Greg has nothing to give. Sherlock wouldn’t want it if he had. Is all hard, bright, sharp edges. 

Greg makes it work somehow, the glittering antagonism within his team, gets himself between them all, closing doors, promising access to crime scenes for five minutes, ten, not too much. 

Occasionally, when it’s really called for, and because Sherlock isn’t the only one who can be childish, there’s something like a drugs bust. 

Other times he takes a deep breath and tells himself he’ll hit the gym later. There’s no point going straight home just to sit in near-silence, taking turns to make a brew in some weird mutual farce of keeping it civil, and he doesn’t want to be that bloke in the pub every night, getting more maudlin and defeated as the beer soaks in. 

Even Sherlock’s satirical glance, the occasional pointed remark that doesn’t say exactly, explicitly, that Greg is kidding himself, but makes it clear Sherlock thinks it, is somehow better than that. 

Even wanting to slap Sherlock down is something. Work is something. It’s not the numbness of indifference.


	6. Chapter 6

‘So, what’s the story about Dr Watson?'

It's Lestrade’s last question of the day and he clearly means it to appear casual, although Sherlock doesn’t know why he bothers. Sherlock has had his body language memorised for some time now and Lestrade only ever puts his hands in his pockets in that ‘relaxed and easy’ way so that he can close them into fists without being seen. The blinds are down in his office too, and the key turned in the door. There's nothing casual about any of it.

This, Sherlock supposes, is jealousy, although since Lestrade has been irredeemably married all through the five years Sherlock has known him he really has no right to be jealous, and Sherlock therefore no interest in soothing it. He doesn’t put his coat on though, not just yet.

‘I couldn’t afford the rent without him.’ He says ambiguously. ‘And, as you know, he’s a doctor. I thought he might be useful.'

‘Useful.’ Definitely jealous. 

‘You of all people know I don’t do relationships, Lestrade.’

‘Yeah. I suppose I do.’

‘Well then.’ Sherlock starts to turn away. ‘If we’re quite finished here.’

‘You tell me if we’re finished here.'

‘No.’ Sherlock keeps up effortlessly with the change in meaning, in pace. ‘You tell me. Isn’t that how it’s always been?’ The challenge is deliberate, provocative, because Lestrade is angry, which is interesting, and Sherlock has no case on, and as someone told him just last night, Sherlock will do anything to escape being bored.

‘You’re asking for it.’ Lestrade says grimly.

‘Oh I do hope so.’ Their eyes have locked now, and Lestrade’s are dark with something Sherlock hasn’t seen before, and he is so very not bored.

Just one word is enough to bring him to his knees. After that the rest seems inevitable.

Sherlock will deny, if asked, that he has an oral fixation, but there is something pleasing about the slide across his tongue, about not having to think, Lestrade’s long fingers coiling gently in his hair, using only the slightest pressure to push Sherlock forward and down, to hold him steady. Not giving in to his anger just yet. 

Unasked and unwanted, Sherlock sucks lightly anyway, trying to speed things along, annoyed at how controlled Lestrade is, how smooth; but the only reaction he gets is Lestrade’s thumb stroking across the pulsepoint behind Sherlock’s ear, soothing him with the same easy rhythm he’s using to slide in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, slide Sherlock’s mouth up and down on him, working a little deeper each time. Sherlock's stomach feels hollow with greed, slavering with the shared desire for more, for deeper still. 

Lestrade is clearly of the same mind, pushing and pushing until Sherlock can no longer suck for fear of choking, has to fight down the instinct to pull back, to give himself room to breathe.

Lestrade stops at once, still buried deep, and Sherlock can neither gag nor swallow around him, conscious that if he does everything will be more difficult than it already is, and they will both be left disappointed. 

It’s only for a moment, he keeps his panic well contained until Lestrade draws slowly back, relaxing his hold a little, leaving just the glans in for Sherlock to lap at.

Sherlock breathes in through his nose and lets his throat contract at last, sucking gently on Lestrade’s prick as he does so. Lestrade is soothing still, stroking through his hair, and Sherlock thinks confusedly that he shouldn’t need it, the reassurance, but it’s pleasant to have. 

Then Lestrade is gliding slowly in again and Sherlock lets it slip over his tongue, tries not to react, bracing himself to take it, relaxing again as Lestrade pulls slowly out. 

There’s a tickle in the back of his throat but he daren’t cough while Lestrade continues to fuck his mouth (it is a fucking, not a blowjob. Lestrade is completely in charge here) so he crushes it down, ignoring it, like the sting behind his eyes, as a minor irritation.

Besides there’s no time to fixate on extraneous detail - Lestrade’s hands are moving him faster now, more insistently, prick rigid in his mouth, demanding attention, making his jaw ache. His grip is tighter now too, putting pressure on the pulsepoint at his neck, not too hard, but enough to make him dizzy. What air he can take in between thrusts swirls the scent of masculine arousal into and around him until he feels slightly drugged. A rhythm builds, it’s not violent, but it soon will be, and he can’t contribute anything now, suck or lick or use his breath to warm it. It’s too fast for that, too hard, all he can do is take it, let it plunge to the back of his throat again and again, let Lestrade use him in firm, aggressive movements, just regular enough to accommodate. 

Irrumatio. The word shapes to the rhythm of Lestrade’s hips, a steady beat into Sherlock’s mouth Ee- rhu- mar-shee-oh. 

There, at last, is the anger. Lestrade holding him so tightly, moving so fast, and now he can barely breathe at all, but that doesn’t matter, he won’t let himself go at this stage. He can bear the final few thrusts, feel the last of the air be knocked out of him, hear the blood pound in his ears, before the thickness of orgasm smothers him and he’s finally, irretrievably lost. 

He surfaces to find Lestrade sitting on the floor with one arm around Sherlock’s waist and the other hand gently dabbling at Sherlock’s mouth and chin with a tissue. He looks guilty, furtive, no doubt because he just had sex with Sherlock in anger. 

Sherlock sighs, wondering why nothing ever stays simple for long and why he can’t seem not to care how Lestrade feels.

‘For the record.’ He says quietly. ‘John is almost certainly heterosexual and I told him I was married to my work.' 

‘You little sod.’ Lestrade is presumably too sated to get properly angry that he's been played, but he makes the attempt. ‘You absolute buggering brat.’ Which he isn’t, actually, as far as Lestrade knows. They’ve never done that. 

Never will, Sherlock tells himself. Married man and so on, even if it doesn't seem to stop her. He gets to his feet.   
Lestrade follows suit, just a little less steadily. ‘Look.. Sherlock.'

‘Not right now Lestrade, need to get home and finish the unpacking.’ Sherlock smiles brightly, one of the smiles Lestrade knows is false (and Sherlock knows he knows, of course, Sherlock knows everything) and swoops out of the office, scooping up his coat and clicking the doorcatch open almost in one movement. 

He pulls the coat on as he goes, wrapping it around himself. It’s cold outside today.


	7. Chapter 7

After that things move fast. It’s Watson’s blog that does it. 

At first it’s more funny than anything else. And kind of reassuring, because it makes Sherlock seem more – human, and John has Sherlock’s back in a way Greg knows he can’t, what with work and.. well, divided loyalties. 

But it also makes him a target, and Greg’s world goes from mad to madder, and Sherlock is loving it. Cryptic. Showing off. Impossible to rein in. Greg wants to snatch the damn pink phone from him and turn it off. Smash it to smithereens. 

But they need to know who’s behind this. And why. That’s what’s really got Lestrade frustrated. The not knowing why anyone would do this. 

‘Good Samaritan.’ Sherlock suggests blithely.

‘Who press-gangs suicide bombers?’

‘Bad Samaritan.’ 

‘I’m serious..’ but Sherlock refuses to take it seriously, buoyed up by his own cleverness. Just once Greg thinks something has got through, when Sherlock is insistent, urgent as he tries to stop the woman talking. _Tell me nothing_ , he says, and then his face blanks and Greg knows he’s come up hard and sharp against reality. 

It doesn’t last. 

On top of all this there’s Sherlock’s brother, just a voice on the telephone, precise and slightly creepy. Not to mention the underlying tone of disapproval which makes Greg suspect Mycroft knows something to his discredit. 

The last thing Greg needs when he’s meant to be giving his marriage another go. When it’s Christmas, and he’s trying so hard to believe. 

It’s a sham, of course. He thinks he knew that even before Sherlock spoke. 

She doesn’t bother to deny it. Why should she when she knows he’s already given up. That he’s not bothered enough to even get angry any more. 

‘I’ve done things I’m not proud of.’ He admits. It’s been going on so long now it doesn’t matter who started it. They’ve both been dragging it out, unable to break away, but it’s done. 

‘We’ve got 2 beautiful kids.’ He reminds himself. 

‘Greg.’

‘Yeah I know, not a reason.’ He says it quick, so she knows he’s not asking to try again, and then they both look away, guilty, because maybe it should be reason enough, if they were both better people than they are. 

It’s funny, this little moment of comradeship. The closest they’ve been in years. 

‘I guess I’m the one who’s leaving then.’ He picks up his jacket, no idea where he’s going.

‘I’ll explain to the kids.’ Like they didn’t work it out years ago. 

He doesn’t say that. 

He closes the front door gently behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

He stays with friends for a week. Married friends, Anne and Robin, whose own two kids are still at the frustrated stage, bawling when they can’t make themselves understood. His are just as inarticulate on the phone but a little better when he takes them out and they can talk three ways and he doesn’t find himself asking bloody silly questions like ‘How are you?’. What are the poor little sods meant to say in answer to that? 

They don’t ask if he’s coming back, and he doesn’t tell them he’s already had a solicitor’s letter. He wishes he felt worse about that, but in a way it’s good to know she’s cracking on with it. Not that they _can_ crack on. It’s a surprise to find out incompatibility is not considered reason for divorce. 

‘Not in the UK, guv.’ Sally’s trying to be sympathetic, but she’s obviously seen this coming for years. ‘You’ve been watching too much American TV.’

So unless he wants to cite adultery or she wants to claim he’s been unreasonable, they’ll just have to wait 2 years or whatever it is. Meanwhile there’s the money to sort out, and he needs to get himself somewhere so the kids can stay over, and to buy some stuff for it.

As soon as he can draw breath he books a holiday too, somewhere hot, and finally takes his wedding ring off for good. There’s still a pale circle of skin round the base of his finger when he comes back, but not so bad as it was. 

Sherlock, for whatever reason, has a passive aggressive fit as soon as he sees it. Or as soon as he realises Mycroft asked Greg to hare off up to Dartmoor after him. God only knows what goes on with those two. 

Then of course John and Sherlock slope off while he’s busy explaining things to the local police because some ruddy nutter _blew himself up with a landmine_ just last night. 

Christ, nothing changes does it? Even this.. thing they’ve got, prickly as Sherlock is these days, behaving himself better in public but acid and brusque by turns when they’re not actually engaged in.. well.

Later he’ll wonder if Sherlock was pushing him away on purpose. Later he’ll wonder why he didn’t grab him, hold him, make sure he bloody well got locked up good and tight while they looked into sodding Moriarty. But later is too late. 

All around him people are falling apart. Anderson, haunted by guilt and deep in denial. Sally beyond furious at herself for being played. They can’t possibly work together. Can barely be in the same room for five minutes, unable to cope with the way the other’s coping. 

John’s face is a careful, stoic, blank. 

And Greg sits in his rented beige living room in front of the big TV the kids persuaded him to get, and lights cigarette after cigarette, drawing the smoke down into his lungs and watching it drift up to the ceiling to turn the white paint yellow, until his chest feels heavy, fingers stained and eyes burning, and his stomach sick.


	9. Chapter 9

‘What the hell happened to you?’

‘John.’

Well that explains why Sherlock had braced himself even before Greg had flung his arms around him and almost toppled him over.

‘And the last two years?’

‘That’s a longer story.’

‘You can tell it while we get you cleaned up then.’

They take the first aid kit through to Lestrade’s office, where Sherlock can perch on the desk while Lestrade dabs antiseptic on his split lip and scolds him as he licks at it. It’s late, and although all the motion sensitive lights come on as they walk through, the faint buzz they make only emphasises the silence and darkness pressing in from outside.

Sherlock sits with his arms folded, cold or defensive, and tells Greg the story he probably really wanted to tell John.  
Perhaps it comes of listening to Anderson’s wild theories (Greg makes a mental note to buy the man another pint sometime soon and give him the chance to crow a bit) but the only bit that seems surprising is Molly’s involvement.

‘She’s just been pretending she didn’t know this whole time?’

‘We needed a doctor.’ Sherlock says simply. ‘Unfortunately John isn’t very good at telling lies.’

‘And Molly is?’

‘Surprisingly so.’ Sherlock stands as Lestrade finishes cleaning him up, walks to look at himself in the window, the light on the glass and night outside sharpening his reflection. He looks drawn. Tired. ‘John didn’t actually hit me anywhere he could do much damage.’ He says thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps that’s why it didn’t really do anything to dissipate his anger.’

Lestrade chooses to ignore that. Instead he screws the cap back on the witch hazel and sweeps all the little balls of cotton wool into the empty waste basket. The cleaners came and went hours ago.

‘You’re not angry.’ Sherlock’s coat swirls a little as he turns from the window, and Greg suddenly realises it wasn’t his own reflection Sherlock was studying at all. ‘But then I suppose we both took each other for granted didn’t we? It was less one sided.’

There’s a specific way the first aid kit has to be packed, otherwise the damn thing bulges out at the sides and the zip won’t close. Greg focusses on that so he doesn’t have to look up.

‘Well good night Detective Inspector.’ Sherlock says briskly. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

It’s a small office. Greg catches him by the arm before he’s out the door.

‘Sherlock.’ But he doesn’t know what to say. They’ve never talked. Not alone. Not properly. Even when Sherlock had told him his wife was seeing someone else he’d done it in front of other people, showing off his own brilliance rather than suggesting he wanted anything more.

Greg had thought he liked that. Until Sherlock was gone, and he’d realised they’d agreed to keep it casual by not agreeing anything at all, and the friendship they’d had wasn’t enough to stop the man killing himself.

Except he didn’t kill himself. He’s right here, looking up into Lestrade’s face with cool, amused curiosity.

He came back, and he hadn’t even bothered to remember Greg’s name. Or got it wrong deliberately, which is at least as bad.

It’s been two years, and Greg wasn’t the one he chose to come home to first.

Greg loosens his fingers slowly, and lets him go.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s not for long, of course. Sherlock wants cases. Lives and breathes them, and they’re both friends of John, who is getting married, which sends Sherlock into a complete dizzy spin, or possibly just gives him a good excuse to wind Greg up all over again. 

The brattishness is almost – no, not almost, is - a relief. Ridiculous demands for attention are better than Greg deserves. He’s been in a fog of self-centred misery for far too long - if it suited Sherlock to be oblivious, it suited him to think of Sherlock as emotionless. A machine. 

It’s the wedding itself that finally kills that notion off. All that work to make sure the happy couple are the centre of attention, even after Sherlock has done as smart a bit of deduction as Greg has ever seen. There will be no deaths today, on John’s wedding day. 

It’s only Greg who can’t look at anyone else but Sherlock, who sees him sneak out through a side door and follows him. Or tries to. Sherlock knows he’s there before they’re even as far as the road. 

‘Not now Lestrade.’ He says, turning on his heel to face him.

‘Just checking you’re ok.’ Greg shrugs. Solid. Stolid. One of those anyway. 

‘Guilt is a pointless emotion.’ Sherlock says, presumably to demonstrate how much better he is at reading Greg’s mind than the other way round. ‘And rather patronising, frankly.’  


He takes those few steps closer, close enough that the elusive scent of his cologne or aftershave or whatever it is just tugs, gently, at Greg’s senses. It’s the usual one, unchanged in all these years, but no longer undercut with the sharper scent of nicotine.

Closer again than that. More slowly now, as if uncertain of his welcome, or uncertain what all this entails. Greg is conscious that he’s holding his breath, as if one wrong move might break the spell. 

It’s a just a kiss. Light. Brief. Undemanding.

‘You taste of beer.’ Sherlock murmurs afterwards. Musing, not a complaint. His eyes focus a moment on Greg’s face as if he’s seeing him for the first time.

And then he's off again. ‘Goodnight Lestrade. Enjoy the party.’

‘Greg.’ 

At that Sherlock turns back, hands in his pockets this time, still moving away, backing and grinning. Suddenly 20 years younger. 

‘Well if you want to be obvious.’ He laughs, shrugs it off. ‘Goodnight Greg.’


End file.
